


Old Methods Never Fail

by Arrestzelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Episode: s07e17 The Born-Again Identity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Sam is suffering from sleep deprivation due to the constant visits from Lucifer. Dean wants his little brother to get some rest, so he resorts to a method from their childhood: good old fashioned cuddling.





	Old Methods Never Fail

**Author's Note:**

> I watched this episode for the first time two days ago with Layne, and I felt so bad for Sam that I had to write something to make him and myself feel better. He doesn't deserve this treatment LET HIM GET SOME REST

The dazed, despondent look on Sam’s face when he walks into the morose room is worrisome. Sam looks like a lost _and_ kicked puppy. The haphazard shaggy hair joined by his developing beard only contributes to it. Although, unlike a puppy, he’s massive—easily as big as the bed itself. He’s sitting with his arms resting limply in his lap, his legs tangled in the mess of sheets. Wearing only the white shirt and matching pants given to him, Sam looks even less like himself. Dean had begun to associate his flannel as his actual skin. Sam flinches with a jerk of his head, body rippling with tension, before he warily trains his heavy eyes on his elder brother.

“How you holdin’ up?” Dean asks, as gently as he can manage with a clear of his throat, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans. Sam shrugs. He looks down at the bed between his limp hands. Dean supposes that’s good enough an answer as “I’m just great, not like I’m going to die from lack of sleep or anything”. Dean stands there with uncertainty for a moment, debating what to say, what to do. Sam clears his throat roughly and looks up at him past his messy bangs.

“I’m just great. Not like I’m going to die from a lack of sleep, or anything,” he mutters, giving the other man a wry look on his sullen face. Dean squints with a slight sardonic smirk on his face. Funny.

“Alright, wise guy. Well, I’m doing my best to take care of it. Just thought I could… Swing by. See how you’re doing,” Dean remarks, stepping closer to the bed and withdrawing his hands from his pockets to cross his arms. Sam searches Dean’s face, his sarcastic, amused expression weakening to something more vulnerable and… Just plain exhausted.

“I appreciate it,” Sam begins, his lips twitching in an attempt to manage the slightest smile, “But not much can be done. He was loudly playing a kazoo when you walked in.”

Dean makes a face.

“What is he doing now?”

Sam’s gaze averts from Dean’s to stare at some place beyond his shoulder.

“He’s… Uh.”

“Maybe I don’t want to know,” Dean grimaces, turning to warily eye the desk behind himself. Sam manages a slight, breathless laugh and says lowly, “It’s better if we just ignore him.”

“Sure. Manage any sleep?”

Sam raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, face twisting into a tired, weak grimace.

“Not really. Maybe five minutes every few hours. I _can_ rest my eyes when he’s here, unless he starts using the firecrackers or lights the bed on fire.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, looking at his younger brother with a furrowed brow and disturbed eyes. Sam shrugs. He absentmindedly rubs at his bicep and says quietly, “I don’t try to often. It’s hard to sleep when you got the Devil on your back, whether he’s creating a bunch of noise or not. Paranoia, and all that.”

Dean says nothing. He watches Sam with a searching gaze, his brow knit and lips in a line. He wants to help him. He wants to do _something_ beyond just making phone calls. He hates how helpless he is, how little he can do for his baby brother. Whenever Sam had nightmares, or couldn’t sleep due to insomnia born by paranoia, Dean was there to help him get to bed. Whether by forcefully (and teasingly) tucking him in as a form of comfort, or reciting a certain bedtime story Mom used to tell _him,_ which only served to embarrass Sam.

Sometimes, _rarely,_ Dean would even lay with him under the covers, just to give him some peace of mind. Watching Sam now, his head bowed, long locks shrouding his face, shoulders slump and dejected, Dean recalls holding him when they were younger, stroking at his hair, talking to him in low murmurs—at least, until Sam told him to shut up in a voice bearing the signs of nearby unconsciousness.

“Would sticking around help you get some shut-eye?” Dean asks lowly, earning Sam’s lidded gaze, his hazel eyes drained and exhausted. Dean shifts foot to foot nervously, clearing his throat. Sam furrows his brow, an unspoken expression of confusion. Dean continues, quietly.

“Remember when we were kids? When you would need me to—”

“Yeah,” Sam cuts in, grimacing slightly with embarrassment, “Yeah, I remember, Dean. I don’t know if that would help. And I’m sure _he_ would get a kick out of that.”

“Who gives a shit? Tune it out. Ignore anything he says. I will literally kick your hallucination’s ass if he dares to talk crap about it.”

That gets a slight smile out of Sam, joined by his weakened eyes and knit brow. Dean takes that as an invitation. He uncrosses his arms and steps up to his bedside. Sam looks at him with uncertainty.

“Dean—”

“May as well try,” Dean interrupts, “And I’m not gonna be hearing any complaints, alright? I’m your big brother, it’s my job to do this kind of thing.”

Even if this is kinda girly and sappy. Whatever. This time, Dean will have to neglect his insecurity and masculinity for Sam’s sake. Sam looks unamused.

“Dean, you say that whenever you want me to agree with something.”

“Because it works. Now scoot.”

Dean nudges him on the hip impatiently. Sam sighs and plants his hands on the bed for stability. Weakly, he moves over to give him some room. With a frown, Sam stares at him, watching him incredulously as the other man takes a seat beside him. The tiny bed creaks in protest to the additional weight.

“Stop taking up so much room,” Dean bitches as he scoots closer, knocking into him, “You’re a freakin’ giant.”

“Maybe we’ll fit since you’re so small,” Sam bites back with a toneless voice, shifting over in an effort to give him more space. Dean eyes him and nudges him on the thigh with a fist, “Shut your massive mouth! Now lay down already, c’mon.”

Sam doesn’t bother withholding his sigh. He warily glances past Dean towards the desk, his jaw clenching. Dean smacks him again, earning his shaken gaze. Dean huffs and snaps, “Stop acknowledging him! Hurry up and get under the covers, or I swear to God, I will wrestle you down—which will be easy!”

Dean gives him a pointed look with raised eyebrows. Sam grumpily slips down over the bed, his feet hanging slightly off the end—Dean withholds his comment on it. A _freakin’ giant_. Sam weakly pulls the white sheets over himself. Dean kicks off his boots and then takes the corner of the sheets and covers himself as well… Or at least, as much as he can since this twin-sized sheet is meant for one fully grown (goliath) man. He sits up against the headboard, giving Sam the majority of the space. Sam’s back is to him; he’s resting on his side.

Suddenly, Sam flinches, his shoulder curling in. Dean reaches out to gently grasp his bicep. Sam relaxes a little and turns his head to peek back at him past his wild locks. Dean manages the slightest perk of a smile.

“You fine?”

Sam watches him for a moment, his heavy gaze sweeping down over him. Then he turns to face him, jostling the bed a bit. The sheets get tangled, tugged off of Dean from the motion. Dean opens his mouth to throw a sarcastic “ _you plan on sharing, Andre?_ ” at him, but his voice dies when Sam curls up against him. His knee knocks into Dean’s thigh, the back of his hand resting limply against his side. His forehead presses to Dean’s arm, head laying upon the pillow.

Tense, Dean sits there, staring at Sam’s curled up form, covered by the haphazard sheets. He swallows hard and lets out a breath. He peeks down towards Sam’s face; his eyes are closed, mouth slightly open. His locks are strewn across his stubbled face. His weakened expression shifts into something uncomfortable. He flinches; Dean reflexively reaches a hand out to rest it along Sam’s broad back, a comforting gesture. Sam’s eyes flick open weakly, training up on Dean’s unsure face, before they roll shut again. His head dips forward, now lacking Dean’s arm as a brace, for his forehead to press into Dean’s side, against his navy blue coat.

“Uh, you okay down there?” Dean stammers, because he’s an idiot who can’t keep his mouth shut when he’s feeling awkward. Sam makes a slight, weak noise, though he produces nothing else. Dean presses his lips together and sweeps his gaze across the room, warily. Well, he sees no stubbled, lackadaisical-lookin’ guy with a dad bod. That’s for sure. Dean trains his gaze back on his baby brother to see his face alternate between lax and uncomfortable. Dean pats his muscular back a few times.

Sam doesn’t respond. Dean pauses when he feels his muscles clench under his hand, through the thin cotton of the white shirt. Pressing his fingertips gently into the tense muscle, Dean is surprised—but also _not_ surprised—to feel multiple knots. Tension is twisting his back up. Dean huffs.

“You need to relax,” he mutters, and begins kneading his thumb into one particularly prominent knot. Sam grunts.

“Hard to do that when the Devil is pissing on you.”

“You as in _you,_ or…”

“You as in _you,_ Dean.”

“Me?! Why me?!”

“You’re taking away my attention.”

Dean turns to face the other way and proclaims while continuing to work his fingers into Sam’s clenched back, “Sorry, dude, but I’m not into being pissed on. Things are moving a little fast for me.”

Fixing his gaze back on Sam, he sees a weak smile on his face, his eyes closed. Dean grins and nudges him a little. Cracking his eyes open, Sam looks up at him weakly, brow furrowed.

“Sam—Sam, if I do this—” Dean turns back towards the other way and opens his mouth, eye peering back at Sam, “—Does it look like he’s pissing in my mouth, or?”

Sam snorts, grinning tiredly.

“For a second. Now he’s lighting you on fire. I don’t think he appreciated that.”

“Aw. I was finally getting into it.”

Sam yawns loudly, and then drops his head back against Dean’s side. Dean takes that as a cue to shut up. He continues kneading at his shoulders. Sam makes a slight noise and mumbles sluggishly, “Feel’s good.”

Dean blinks, surprised. He doesn’t say anything. He just resumes working his fingers along the tension and knots in his shoulders, until it more or less completely dissipates. Sam is breathing softly, his body large and warm along Dean’s side. His hand had unfurled and risen to rest open-palm against Dean’s side, across the fabric of his Henley underneath his jacket. The warmth of Sam’s touch seeps through the material, growing across Dean’s skin. Dean feels _weird_ about this, but he also feels _good_ about this. He’s happy he can make Sam feel a little more comfortable.

It sucks to say, but it’s never like this anymore. Never really relying on each other for comfort. Comfort, for them, is found in silence and drink. Dean does it out of reflexive withdrawal and distancing, taught to him by John. Sam avoids initiating anything, solely because _Dean_ doesn’t want to deal with this kind of crap. When it comes down to it, when he really thinks about it, Dean knows he should maybe be better about it. He should welcome Sam in. But it’s just not who he is.

If it comes to _Sammy’s_ well-being, though… Maybe he’ll let it slide once or twice.

So, for now, this is okay.

Five minutes later of slight flinching and occasional grimaces from Sam, he settles. The younger, yet bigger, of the two stills and lays there silently, his inhales and exhales slow and deep. Then Dean hears a quiet snore. The broad back under his hand goes completely lax; Sam bears his weight against him, limply. Dean smiles. He brings his hand up from his back to begin gently, secretly petting at Sam’s haphazard hair. He brushes his bangs out of his face and strokes his thumb across his locks. They’re soft.

They remain like this for five minutes. Dean deems this attempt successful. He continues caressing Sammy’s long hair as he glances towards the other end of the room.

With his other hand, he raises his middle finger to the room and half-whispers to the emptiness which leers back at him, a smirk on his face, vibrant green eyes smug, “Would you look at that? Sammy’s gettin’ some shut-eye, you asswipe.”

**Author's Note:**

> main: arrestzelle.tumblr.com | supernatural blog: johnplscomeback.tumblr.com


End file.
